"If you hurt," Dain said, "I will fetch the physician to you."

"Don't want him," Lord Odfrey said. "Want my breakfast. Want to sit up. Roye!

d.a.m.ne, where are you?"

"Here, my lord," Sir Roye said hastily, scrambling to his side. The protector scrubbed at his face with his hands, grinning at his master with a delight that transformed his craggy face. "You're awake. Praise Thod!" "I hurt and I'm hungry," Lord Odfrey said, pounding the bed weakly with one hand. "Why is it so dark in here? Why has the fire burned out? What stinks? Dain!"

"Yes, lord?"

The chevard stared up at him with sudden horror. "Tell me the truth. Is my face infected with the rot?"

"Not yet," Dain replied. "The stink comes from Sulein's poultice. It needs to come off."

"And what do you know about healing and such arts?" Sir Roye asked him fiercely from the opposite side of the bed.

Dain glared right back. "My sister knew healing. She said a wound should be kept clean and exposed to light and fresh air."

"Hah!" Sir Roye said in derision. "You'd kill him certain, with measures like that." Lord Odfrey reached up and began tugging at his bandages. "Off with it." "My lord," Sir Roye said, trying to hold down his hands. "Wait for Sulein to do that. You'll hurt yourself, sure."

"Ow!" Lord Odfrey shouted. Cursing, he finished pulling the bandage away and flung it on the floor.

Then Sulein arrived, gliding forward hastily with his robe unfastened and his conical hat on crooked.

"What is this? What is this?" he asked, clapping his hands together.

"Wash this d.a.m.ned stink off me," Lord Odfrey ordered. The commotion began. A page stuck his head inside the room, staring around with his eyes popping. "He's better! He's alive! Praise Thod!" The guards looked in while the page went dashing away, shouting down the corridor. Sulein bustled to fill a basin with water and started cleaning the wound. Servants, gawking at their master, came in to build up new fires and light fresh candles. Sulein ordered the window shut, but Lord Odfrey ordered it opened again. All the windows were opened, transforming the chamber with sunlight and fresh air.

From outside, the chapel bell began to ring in celebration, sending up ripples of music such as Dain had never heard.

He retreated from the general confusion, taking refuge in a corner, until Sir Roye noticed him and booted him out. But Lord Odfrey ordered him brought back in.

"I want him near me," the chevard said. "Make a place for him. He is welcome at Thirst, as long as he will stay."

Sir Roye bowed, but he shot a quick, scornful look in Dain's direction. "And what place will he have, my lord? Stable work? Field work?" "Nonsense." Looking suddenly white and exhausted, Lord Odfrey sank back upon his pillows. "Put him among the fosters. Give him training at arms." The servants froze in mid-task. Sulein jostled his basin of water. Sir Roye's eyes widened in shock.

"He's pagan, m'lord! It's against-"

"Look at his black hair. Look at his size. He's just starting to grow, d.a.m.ne," Lord Odfrey said. "There's human blood in him too. Under the old law, he can be trained."

Sir Roye opened his mouth, but the captain of the guards came rushing in, his surcoat flapping about his knees, his chain mail creaking. Halting, he threw a salute.

"My lord!" he said briskly.

Sulein straightened. "There are too many people in this room," he said in a loud voice that drove out the servants. "The chevard will live, but he must have rest."

Lord Odfrey ignored everyone but his protector. They stared at each other, their strong wills clashing visibly. Dain looked on, holding his breath in amazement. Training? To be a warrior? To perhaps be a knight someday? To have rank and skills and training, to know adventure and battle? His heart started thumping hard, and he could not breathe for excitement.

"Put him in training," Lord Odfrey said.

"M'lord, I would do your will as always," Sir Roye said with a grimace, "but think of what this means.

Remember who is fostered here." "These matters can be settled at another time," Sulein said, trying tointerrupt them. He gestured for Sir Roye to withdraw, but the knight protector did not budge from Lord Odfrey's bedside.

"The prince, m'lord," Sir Roye said.

Dain opened his mouth, wanting to offer a dozen a.s.surances. Wanting to plead. Wanting to say anything that would prevail. But he held himself silent, sensing that at this moment he should not interfere.

"The prince does not choose my fosters," Lord Odfrey said, his voice starting to fail him. He shut his eyes a moment, then fought to reopen them. "I rule this hold by royal warrant. Dain will be fostered here, with full rights as such."

"But he has no sponsor, no one to provide for him. He can't-"

"d.a.m.ne, Sir Roye, do not argue with me!" As he spoke, Lord Odfrey grimaced in agony and fell back against his pillows again, gasping for breath. "Now this is enough," Sulein said, pulling the coverlet up across the invalid and placing his hand firmly on the chevard's sweating brow. "You will bring back your fever if you do not rest. Sir Roye, why do you argue with your master's orders? Why do you risk his life by making him so upset?" Sir Roye looked stricken. He bowed low. "Your pardon, m'lord. I did not mean to-" "You always have the best interests of the hold at heart," Lord Odfrey said in a thin, tired voice. He tried to smile, but that caused him more pain. "I know this. Thod brought him to me. Let him stay, if he will." Sir Roye nodded, but he glanced at Dain without acceptance. "Boy, do you have any idea of what training means?"

"Yes," Dain said, his eagerness spilling forth. "To learn arms and-" "Will you stay, unsponsored, and take the training freehold?"

Dain frowned slightly, unsure of what these terms meant exactly. "If it means I can eat food and not be beaten and learn-"

"If I may speak," Sir Bosquecel said.

Sir Roye turned on him fiercely. "You may not!"

"Sir Roye," Lord Odfrey said in rebuke.

The protector's mouth snapped shut. He glared at the captain, who met his gaze without flinching.

"Speak," Lord Odfrey said wearily.

"If it please you, my lord, I will sponsor the boy."

Sir Roye snorted. "Are you adopting him, Bosquecel?" "The men will see that he has what he needs in equipment and all else," Sir Bosquecel said.

Dain stared, unable to believe his ears.

Sir Bosquecel smiled at Lord Odfrey. "We would have him as our mascot, my lord." Sir Roye looked at the captain as though he were a fool, but Lord Odfrey smiled back. "These details will be worked out later," he said, and thrust away the cup Sulein was trying to press to his lips. "No, I do not want thatabomination!" he said fiercely. "I want breakfast."

Sulein closed in on him again, and Sir Roye came around the bed to gesture at Dain, who followed him over to the captain of the guard. "You heard the chevard," Sir Roye said gruffly. He shoved Dain at Sir Bosquecel.

"He's yours, man. Get him started."

"Yes, sir."

The captain saluted and wheeled around smartly. Dain followed at his heels, but Sir Roye gripped his arm to delay him a moment.

"Heed this," he said in Dain's ear. "The chevard has given you the chance of a lifetime, far more than the likes of you deserves. Don't you let him down, or it's me you'll answer to."

Dain met his fierce eyes, and knew the threat was no idle one. "I understand," he said quietly with equal determination, and hurried out.

Part Three

In a northern valley of Nether, up near the World's Rim, the war of rebellion that had been planned and plotted with such care and hope for months came to an end.

It began at dawn, with the blatting of horns and the yelled battle cries of men. Five hundred rebels, trained and drilled to peak efficiency, were led by General Ilymir Volvn, formerly a prince before King Muncel declared him traitor and confiscated his lands and fortune. General Volvn was the greatest military strategist in the realm, and he took on two thousand of the king's troops this day, his hawk face turned fearlessly toward his enemy, his courage and valor infecting his small force.

He should have won today, for his men were the best of the rebel fighters, better trained by far than the Gantese allies and sloppy conscripts of the king. The rebels had justice on their side.

But King Muncel the Usurper had evil on his.

In the second hour of battle, when Volvn's forces were beginning to prevail, a gateway to the second world was opened, and out poured demons of all descriptions. After that the tide of battle had shifted; then had come the slaughter.

Disbelieving, Princess Alexeika Volvn watched the ma.s.sacre from her vantage point on the hillside.

"No!" she cried. "No!"

But there was nothing she could do. Had her father suspected a trap waited for him here, he would not have led his men forth. Alexeika had watched the general pray, had watched him think and plan, had watched him devise strategies, study the ground, and rethink his positions. He had been prepared for everything except the Nonkind, and the scouts had not sighted them in the area before battle commenced.

Foul, dirty dishonor was this. Honorable men and armies did not wage war thus. But then, Alexeika's father was the epitome of an honorable man, while it seemed his foes had forgotten what honor was. It was one thing to go into battle against Gant, with all the demons and horrors Believers tried to unleash ontheir foes. In such situations, Netheran forces summoned special blessings for sword and armor. They positioned sorcerels strategically to help repel the Nonkind monsters. But when Netheran fought Netheran, they fought as men and adhered to the acknowledged rules of battle.

With growing horror, Alexeika watched the battle rage. Had her father's men been less valiant, it would have ended almost as soon as it began. Instead, they fought on, impossibly brave, refusing to flee or surrender until there was only a small knot of men cl.u.s.tered around the banner in the center of the field.

One by one they were hacked down; then the banner fell. Seeing that vivid streamer plummet to the ground, Alexeika screamed. Beside her, the old defrocked priest Uzfan gripped her arm and began to mutter prayers. The boys and other women nearby cried out and wept.

"What can we do?" Shelena moaned. "Merciful Olas, what can we do?" There was nothing, of course.

They were only watchers, too far away and helpless besides. Stricken with shock, Alexeika looked on with tears running down her cheeks.

Before midday, the victors galloped off, their banners streaming with pride under the hot sun. They left the gallant rebel forces of Nether lying strewn across the battlefield like abandoned toys.

Shelena and Larisa clutched each other, weeping. The boys stood white-faced with shock.

Alexeika's heart was drumming. She had entered a frozen place where she could feel nothing. Jerking the reins of her pony untied, she mounted and stood up in the stirrups.

From her throat came a scream of rage and grief so loud and terrible it echoed off the surrounding hills and rolled down into the valley below. The king's forces were just vanishing over the far hillside, but Alexeika waited no longer. She spurred her short-legged pony forward down the long, sloping hill from their vantage point.

"Wait!" Shelena called after her. "Alexeika, it's not yet safe!" Alexeika crouched low over her pony's rough mane and went tearing down into the valley. She intended to ride straight to the center of the field, to the cl.u.s.ter of bodies lying around the broken banner pole, but her pony-no doubt frightened by the smells of carnage-plunged to a halt at the edge of the field. When she kicked him and lashed his neck with the end of the reins, he reared up and nearly threw her off.

Only then did she come to her senses. Down here in the bright, hot sunlight, she could see how trampled the meadow gra.s.s was. Bodies lay where they'd fallen. Blood was splashed everywhere, so much blood. The smell of it in the heat flowed over her senses, suddenly unbearable.

She gagged and leaned over the saddle just in time.

When she righted herself, her pony was shifting and turning under her. The world spun a little. She felt light-headed and cold.

By then Shelena, Larisa, and the five boys had caught up with her. Old Uzfan came straggling behind them, beating his slow donkey with a stick. The beast waggled its long s.h.a.ggy ears and brayed.

The sound echoed across the silent valley, shocking Alexeika. It seemed sacrilege to hear such a common, defiant sound in the presence of so much death. "The G.o.ds protect us," Shelena murmured, drawing rein beside Alexeika.

Larisa covered her mouth with her hand and began to whimper. Alexeika herself could find no words.She stared in all directions at these hacked and broken bodies belonging to men who last night had been laughing and boasting round the camp-fires, working up their courage for today. Right now, she recognized none of their slack faces or dusty, staring eyes. They all looked like strangers, and she was grateful for that. Dazed, she knew that soon the real grief would hit her, and she would find herself crushed as though with a stone.

"All of them," Larisa moaned, rocking herself back and forth in her saddle. "All our brave men." Her broad face contorted, and she began to cry with ugly, gulping sobs. "Thornic! My Thornic! My Dragn.

My Osmyl." Shelena's eyes filled with tears. She tipped back her head to utter the wailing, but Uzfan gripped her arm and shook her hard.

"Stop it!" he said fiercely. "Have you no sense? They will hear us." Larisa went on sobbing, but Shelena glared back at the old priest. "Does it matter?" she retorted. "My man is dead. So is my heart." Uzfan gestured at the boys, who had cl.u.s.tered together to stare. Their young faces showed how unprepared for this ma.s.sacre they were. "Quick. You know what to do. Gather as many weapons as you can. We'll load them on my donkey. Quickly! Just as we planned last night."

Hearing him, Alexeika closed her eyes. Last night, the boys who had been chosen for this task of plundering the dead had believed it would be the enemy's weapons they would gather-not their own.

"Hurry!" Uzfan said, giving one of them a shake. "Would you let the Nonkind have their swords and bows?"

That got the boys moving. Tentatively at first, then with more resolve, they began to pick up the weapons.

While Uzfan got Shelena and Larisa to work, Alexeika's head cleared. She remembered her father's careful instructions, given to her in his final words last night. A lump rose in her throat. She swallowed it, refusing to think of him right now. She had her duty, and she must not shirk it. To do so would be to fail him, he who had never failed her.

Swiftly she dismounted and ground-tied her pony. "Uzfan," she made herself ask, "are there any survivors?"

The old priest lifted his head and closed his eyes. His nostrils quivered, and she could feel the pressure of the power he summoned. Then he opened his eyes and shook his head. His brown eyes met hers and filled with compa.s.sion. She understood, and dropped her own gaze swiftly to hide her tears. "Then we mustn't waste time. The looters will be coming." Both of the older women turned to stare at Alexeika in shock. "No," Larisa whispered.

"The dead will bring them quicker than usual," Alexeika said. As she spoke she glanced toward the southeast, where the king's forces had ridden. "Help Uzfan salt as many bodies as you can." Larisa covered her mouth with her hands and began to cry again, but Shelena faced Alexeika. "There isn't enough salt to go round. We can't sprinkle them all."

Alexeika met her eyes grimly. "Do what you can. Just hurry." Leaving them standing there, rooted in place, Alexeika turned and hurried away, but she'd barely gone more than five strides before someone came puffing behind her and caught her by the back of her jerkin.

Unlike the other women, Alexeika wore male clothing, with leather leggings and a thin linsey tunic reaching nearly to her knees for modesty. Over it she wore a sleeveless jerkin belted by her twindaggers, with their sharp curved blades and ivory handles. Her long, unruly hair hung in a single thick braid down her back, in the way of the Agya soldiers. She was tall for a maiden, lean and surefooted.

She strode boylike. She could swagger and curse and spit and ride. She knew how to handle weapons.

And she'd been taught to think like a man, coldly and fearlessly, but to keep her feminine cunning as well.

When the back of her jerkin was grabbed, Alexeika whirled around, her braid flying straight out behind her, and slapped the offending hand away. It belonged to Uzfan, and his bearded old face was scowling with disapproval. "Where do you go?" he demanded. "We must stay together. This is an evil place.

Magic still crosses the air. There is no safety here among the dead." "I'm going to my father," Alexeika said, her voice as rigid as steel. She would not let herself feel, not now. "I must prepare him."

A piece of her heart kept hoping that old Uzfan was wrong, that a few of these fallen warriors still lived.

Her father could not be dead. He could not. That's what she hoped, although she knew the banner would not have fallen if her father lived. Ilymir Volvn, once a general of King Tobeszijian's forces, and now leader of the rebellion, would be shouting orders at this moment if he still had any breath left in his body.

She could not think of it, not now. Her inner core had a crack across its surface, a crack that would let all her strength shatter inside if she did not take care. No, she must follow her orders. She must not fail him. "Alexeika," Uzfan said, his voice more gentle now, "the preparations are my task, not yours. Stay here close to the others. I will go to him." Frowning, she turned her gaze away. Time was running out; she could feel it as though the slipping grains fell between her fingers. His protests only wasted the moments that remained.

"I'm going," she said, and started off again. She walked quickly, picking her way over the fallen men.

It was eerie and quiet, this field of the dead. Her ears still echoed with the recent sounds of battle, the yells of ferocity, the screams of the dying. Foot soldiers vying against mounted cavalry. The odds evened by training and righteous determination. King Muncel was evil, weak, and half-mad. He had opened Nether to the Nonkind, bargained with the demons of Gant, and sold his soul into unholy alliances as a means of keeping his ill-gotten throne. He was a murderer, a liar, and a thief. He had confiscated lands and personal treasuries, plundered the old shrines, and forced the realm to accept the Reformed Church without exception. He had deposed some n.o.bles and driven out officers, condemning to death any who defied him. Alexeika's own mother, once lady-in-waiting to Queen Neaglis, Muncel's foreign-born consort, had died twelve years past on the end of Muncel's sword because she refused to say where her husband and a third of the standing army had fled to.

And so it had begun, the civil war that went on and on, a never-ending wound that bled the vitality from this realm.

Perhaps, with this defeat, this ma.s.sacre, it had ended at last. Alexeika walked faster, dragging her hand across her burning eyes. She would not accept that. Her father would never want her to think that way.